


A Party of Our Own

by DisraeliGears



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Arguing, Blood Oaths, Laurent is Laurent, M/M, Nikandros might smack him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisraeliGears/pseuds/DisraeliGears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikandros escapes Damen's party for some alone time...and ends up locked in the wine cellar with Laurent. As one could probably imagine, some snarking happens. And some airing of grievances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Party of Our Own

**Author's Note:**

> For devereauxsdisease, whom I love and cherish :)  
> I invented a culture. Sue me.

    It was about a third of the way through the meal that Nikandros started looking for an out.

    It wasn’t exactly like he didn’t have the opportunity to enjoy himself if he wanted to; the leaders of the nomadic plains clans whom Damen had invited to the palace at Ios were nothing if not boisterous partiers. They’d gone through almost one huge oak barrel of wine already in one meal alone.

     The Karacas leaders wore rough sewn clothing, spoke in dialect languages most of the time, and drank more or less constantly. They represented an enormous mounted army, and Nikandros had initially been hesitant of inviting them to Ios for a moot with Damen. The Karacas were known for their distaste of Veretian culture, stealing settlers and selling them into slavery whenever they came into contact with them.

 

     “They won’t side with you, Damen. Not over this.” he’d said two weeks ago in council, leaning across the table with both fists rested on Damen’s extensively marked up map.

      “Once I speak with them, they will. Or they’ll be rendered obsolete. They have no other options.”

     Nikandros’ eyes had strayed then to the disinterested figure sitting crosswise on the abandoned throne at the other end of the room, idly examining its nails, then back to Damen, who was looking back with earnest sincerity.

     “I see. And this is _you_ talking, is it?”

     Damen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, Nikandros.”

  
  


    Any doubts Damen had about them had evaporated when he’d heard in passing that the plains clans referred to him reverentially as ‘Damianos the Deathless.’ He’d welcomed the eight leaders and their various retinues into the city, grinning and shaking them by the shoulders and clapping hands with them roughly, as was their custom. The leaders were on what appeared to be their best behaviour, waving their hands idly when Damen tried to broach the subject of Veretian and Akielon unity, saying loudly they could care less what shape the borders took, as long as they were allowed their plains lands.

    Nikandros wasn’t an overly suspicious person, but he recent events had keened up his senses, and he had a distinct feeling not everything was as it seemed. Nonetheless, Damen, as King and host, had thrown as enormous dinner.

    And so far, Nikandros had to admit, nothing too awful had happened.

    Of course, this was probably because Problem Number One (as Nikandros mentally referred to him) was markedly absent.

   

    Laurent had been standing beside Damen to receive the guests, silent as the grave and holding himself tightly. He’d been there, quiet and unmoving beside him when the council had met up with the leaders and their advisors, and said nothing at all during negotiations. The leaders referred to him as ‘The Fair King’, not by name, and said it almost with a sort of tentative hesitance.

    This respect, though, appeared to have waned slightly throughout the day, or at least wasn’t shared by _all_ of the clansmen. At the very beginning of the meal, as men filed into the dining hall after Damen, laughing and quaffing from tankards, Laurent had been standing to the side, hands clasped behind his back, watching with a blank yet sharp expression. Nikandros had stopped behind a plinth, observing him out of the corner of his eye as men of various levels of inebriation flocked through the hot room. Nikandros watched as one of them angled closer to Laurent, smiled luridly and said something Nikandros only half heard. What he _did_ hear made his blood run cold.

    Laurent had barely moved, just blinked slowly and examined the man before him. He very slowly smiled, and then walked away without a word, leaving the dinner entirely.

    He hadn’t been seen since.

 

Damen was...distracted to say the least. Three of the clan leaders had daughters they were trying to marry off to him. The girls been draped in gold chains, each with at least a dozen piercings in their noses, nipples, belly buttons, ears and lips, as was the custom of their culture, and had more or less nothing else on besides a few square inches of leather.

Years ago, Damen would have laughed and held all three in his lap at once, passing one off to Nikandros near the end of the evening if he hadn’t been similarly lucky.

Now...Damen just grimaced slightly as they were repeatedly shoved at him and he politely turned them away.

Nikandros shifted in his seat, away from the man beside him who was yelling directly in his ear with foul wine breath.

The horrible sour smell was what made Nikandros’ final decision.

“I’m going to fetch a case of griva from the basement.” he said, standing abruptly.

Damen leaned around a mostly naked girl, trying to get a clear line of sight that wasn’t almost directly at her breasts.

“What? Send someone to get it for you. Sit, Nikandros.”

“No. No, I’ll...I’ll be _happy to get it for the King_.” Nikandros said, and bowed deeply.

Damen gave him a strange look.

“Uh. Alright.” he said, eyebrows knotted in confusion.

Nikandros disentangled himself from his chair and the table, straightened his chiton and stalked out of the room, ignoring the laughing questions jeered at him as he went.

 

The palace was quiet, servants here and there bowing to him as he passed. They weren’t actually slaves; not anymore, now that Damen and Laurent were in power. They were paid attendants and unthreatenable by anyone, unless that person wished to be whipped or imprisoned.

And it wasn’t that Nikandros _begrudged_ the changes. He knew in his heart of hearts that Damen was born to be king in more ways than just by being the true heir; he was kind hearted, fair, courageous, intelligent and brave. He was like the kings in the story books that were read to him as a child, and Nikandros was beyond proud to call him his best friend.

It was just that this _best friend_ was now attached to what was, for all intents a purposes, a very beautiful and extremely venomous viper in severe clothing.

It wasn’t that Nikandros didn’t like Laurent...he _detested_ him. Under normal circumstances, he would simply dislike him for his nastiness, snide comments and utter disregard for...well, pretty much everything.

But these weren’t normal circumstances. He was the co-ruler of the huge and wild country Nikandros grew up in and loved ardently. Laurent was _king_ now, and was due respect without giving any of his own.

All of these things aside, Nikandros hated him for what he’d done to Damen. Nikandros had seen people flogged to death before, and the scars across the King’s back were greater in number than those that had been fatal to many other men.

For that alone, Nikandros would have killed Laurent had he been anyone else, without a moment of regret or hesitation.

 

Nikandros passed Jord then, going the opposite direction, deep in the bowels of the castle. Jord nodded at him, but Nikandros’ eyes just narrowed slightly. Damen repeatedly insisted that he was one of the greatest men he’d ever known or fought alongside. Nikandros decided to withhold judgement until the man proved himself as anything other than Laurent’s bodyguard.

The wine cellar was a huge room with a gigantic wood and iron door, deep in the oldest part of the palace. The enormous wine and ale kegs were lifted from there up to the dining hall via a platform and pulleys, like a huge dumbwaiter. Nikandros remembered riding up and down on it as a child with Damen when the royal family was in Delpha.

The huge door creaked open with no small amount of effort, Nikandros bracing his foot against the wall and leaning. He darted through the gap just as it swung back closed with a heavy clang

He turned back to the alleyway between the barrels...and froze.

There, sitting at the winemaster’s desk and flipping idly through the records, his back to the door, was Laurent.

Nikandros inhaled slowly. Should he leave? Or....

Laurent said something then. Nikandros only partially understood it- it was in Veretian, not Akeilon, and his grasp of the language was not as good as Damen’s.

When no response was forthcoming, Laurent turned in his seat, and then slowly raised an eyebrow when he saw Nikandros.

“Ah.” he said flatly in Akeilon, “You.”

Nikandros clenched his jaw and approached. As he got closer, he saw Laurent had uncharacteristically unlaced the very top of his severe jacket, just giving a glimpse of the snowy white skin of his clavicles. He was so _pale_ , Nikandros was amazed he didn’t combust the moment he stepped foot outside.

Nikandros came to a halt near the table, hand resting reflexively on the hilt of his sword.

“What’re you doing in here?” he said.

Laurent just stared lazily back, enormous blue eyes examining Nikandros minutely. Then a sly and humorless smile twisted his lips.

“I could ask you the same question. Was the party really so dull without me that you had to leave?”

Nikandros almost growled at him. As it was, he brushed past and continued on his way through the barrels, towards the rack where the bottles were kept at the far back.

“Your clansmen are interesting folk.”

Nikandros almost jumped out of his skin when the voice came from right behind him, and he looked over his shoulder to see Laurent following him, hands clasped behind his back.

“They aren’t my clansmen.” Nikandros said, rounding a corner, glaring stubbornly ahead.

“No? I remember you saying rather vehemently once that all Akelions are you clansmen, and share the same blood as you.”

“And Damen, so remember that.” Nikandros shot back, “And I didn’t mean it literally.”

Laurent was silent, but Nikandros could _feel_ him smirking.

They had reached the tall racks of bottles and crates, stacked all the way up to the ceiling.

“What is it exactly you’ve been sent down here like a good little servant to retrieve?” Laurent said, looking up at the wall of glass impassively.

Nikandros bristled and wanted to snap back, but willed himself calm again. Laurent was his _king_ ; at least one of them had to behave like this was the case.

“I was not _sent_. I came down here to get a case of griva. Which I know you don’t like...anymore.” it was Nikandros’ turn to smirk.

Laurent ignored this statement entirely and pointed up at the top rack, some thirty feet in the air.

“The griva is stored in ceramic flasks at the very top, in that dark brown box. Makedon told me of it only three days ago.”

Nikandros scrubbed his hands over his face. Was this better than being breathed all over by a drunk Karacian? Barely.

“Fine.” he grumbled darkly. He unbuckled his sword belt and shoved it at Laurent, whose hands had returned to their original position behind his back. He looked down at the proffered sword as if it were some strange and never before seen object. He then glanced back up at Nikandros, one eyebrow cocked.

Nikandros gave him a foul look before carefully placing the weapon on the ground, grumbling under his breath as he unlaced his boots and added them to his pile. He pulled his chiton off one shoulder and let it fall around his waist, to better free his upper body for climbing, and then started up.

The racks were above several large aging barrels, each about seven feet high each. Nikandros took a running start and scaled the nearest sloped barrel’s side, then levered himself up onto the rack above. It was relatively easy going once he got started, and he had enough upper body strength from training and fighting to pull himself up repeatedly.

He glanced back down at the figure on the ground. Laurent was watching his progress, and looking supremely bored.

Nikandros grumbled again, muttering ‘little shit’ under his breath as he went.

Little shit was an understatement, in his opinion.

Once he reached the top shelf, he carefully pulled the box closer and maneuvered it until it was pinned under his arm. Then, he began the long and slow descent, with only one hand to catch himself. A few times he almost lost balance, causing his stomach to jump into his throat, but he managed to save himself each time.

“Careful now.” Laurent said mildly from below, “We wouldn’t want you to fall.”

Nikandros would have made an extremely rude gesture with his fingers had he a free hand.

Once he got back to the barrels, Nikandros carefully gripped the box and leapt athletically down onto the stone floor, jostling the bottles inside only a little.

Nikandros ignored Laurent and placed the box on the ground. He opened it slowly, brushing off the dust, and reached in. He withdrew a bottle...and blinked.

It was not a ceramic flask, but rather a dark glass bottle with a small bee painted on it in gold leaf.

“Ah.” Laurent said, looking over Nikandros’ shoulder, “Mead. Not griva.”

Nikandros slowly placed the bottle back in the box.

“Oh, here.” Laurent said, from a small distance away now, “This must be the box Makedon mentioned.”

Nikandros turned and saw Laurent crouching near a dark colored box on the floor between two barrels, only about ten feet away from where they had been standing.

“Wh- you... _why…_ ” Nikandros straightened, both hands grabbing handfuls of his own hair and pulling, “ _You could have fucking said-_ ”

But then he got a clear look at Laurent’s quietly amused face, and he went still.

He wanted to hit him. He wanted to punch him right in his stupid, ludicrously beautiful smirking face.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do _anything._ He was powerless in the face of a man about six inches shorter than him, and fifty percent smaller.

Nikandros turned on his heel, grabbed his boots and sword, and stalked off. He didn’t trust himself to look at that ridiculous face any longer and not stove it in.

By the time he got to the huge door, he was almost vibrating in impotent rage. He seized the wrought iron handle and pulled.

The door moved not an inch.

Nikandros snarled at it and heaved again, rewarded with nothing besides a muffled clunking noise from somewhere on the other side.

“The locking pin fell through when you closed it. It won’t open.”

Nikandros whirled around, eyes ablaze as he found Laurent, standing just behind him. He moved silent as a cat, apparently.

“ _You._ ” Nikandros spat, “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

Laurent’s head tilted, seeming curious.

“Your meaning?”

“What I _mean,_ is you can’t stop yourself from pushing people, can you? You push and push until finally they either break or push back...and then, what? You, oh, I don’t know, _have them fucking flogged until the flesh falls off their bones?_ ”

Laurent, for the first time that evening, looked taken aback. He looked directly at Nikandros for a second, then averted his gaze in a harsh motion. He turned and walked a short distance away, his posture stiff and unforgiving.

“You play games with people.” Nikandros continued, fists curled tightly, “Because you’re in a position of power and because it’s _fun_ for you.”

“Well, you aren’t wrong.” Laurent said lamely, still not turning around. He appeared to be looking up at the high vaulted ceilings overhead.

“You can’t keep doing it! You’re a king now! Gods be damned, you’re _my_ king! My country isn’t a toy to play with when you are bored of Vere and it’s ridiculous plague of vanity and deceit!”

Laurent said nothing. He walked over to the desk and turned one of the pages on the log, as if in idle, ignoring Nikandros entirely.

Nikandros wanted to strangle him.

“You’re not worthy of him.” Nikandros snarled, venom lacing every word.

Laurent’s hand froze in mid turn of a page.

Nikandros almost smiled in dark delight.

Aha. He’d touched a nerve.

“I’ve known Damen my entire life. We grew alongside one another, learned to speak together, to read and write together. We learned how to ride horses, to fight with sword and spear, to wage war, _together._ I was there when his mother died, when his father and brother rode off to war and left him, I was _there_. And when he went off into the fray at Marlas and ran your brother through with a broadsword, I was there to pull him away and back onto his horse.”

Laurent hadn’t moved. He seemed as though he’d solidified into the marble statue he so resembled.

“Damianos is closer to me than my own siblings. I love him with every fibre of my being, regardless of the fact he has it in him to be the greatest Akelon king to ever sit on the throne. But with you here...you, who had him whipped until his skin and flesh was a red pulp, who even now distracts him from the job he was born to do...I can never forgive you. And Damen never should have.”

Laurent slowly revolved on his feet. When he faced Nikandros, Nikandros set his jaw.

Fury was sparking from the huge blue eyes, set hard into his face like chips of glacial ice.

“These things you speak of, so idly.” he said, voice sickly sweet and horrible to behold, “How is it that you believe they are of any business of yours? What entitlement do _you_ have to affairs between Damianos and I? All this time you spent, _together_ with him as you said, did you never learn the truth? That he is the _king,_ and you his _subject_? You are insignificant, Nikandros. To me, and in our new world, to him as well. He has surpassed and outgrown you.”

Nikandros stared at him.

Laurent was, as was noted by any who met him, disturbingly beautiful. To see him, from afar or up close, was to doubt suddenly in the fairness of the Gods to give so much raw and heartrending beauty to a mortal man. From his symmetrical high cheekbones and his straight pointed nose to his snow white porcelain complexion, he was perfection incarnate, woven from the very fabric of dreams themselves.

And Nikandros realized suddenly how terrible that beauty could be.

“I heard him. What that Karacian man said to you.” He said quietly.

Laurent made a derisive noise and looked askance sharply, as if to look at Nikandros directly was to dignify him with too much acknowledgement.

“He said he too would betray his own brother, for a face like that.”

Laurent ignored this.

“And he was right.” Nikandros continued. “Men would betray oaths for you, kill for you. Destroy kingdoms and cities in your name. But those...those men are honorless. Despicable. Driven by lust and delusion and thoughtless want. Easy to manipulate and control for someone like you.”

Laurent snorted and opened his mouth to retort, but Nikandros cut him off.

“But that isn’t why Damen fought for you. Damen isn’t one of those men. He doesn’t do what he did, what he _does,_ for lust or a vague promise of a fuck. He does it because he loves you.”

Laurent went still again.

“You showed him something. Some part of you that isn’t wicked and barbed and cold as a Vaskian winter. You manipulated him just as much as you did anyone, only you did it by rolling over. Do you know what he told me? He told me, when I said I would never forgive you the scars on his back, that every lash he took he treasured, because each was a second of your childhood he stole from you, and if by carrying them on his body he could give them life again, he would do so proudly.”

Laurent’s eyes sprang wide, and he finally looked up at Nikandros.

Shock was writ across his face, pinking his cheeks.

“I want you to know…” Nikandros said quietly, realizing suddenly how all of the fight had drained out of him, leaving only sorrow “how much power you have over him. And how much he feels he owes you. You hold him in your hand, Laurent. And you hold my country too.”

After a few moments of utter disbelief, Laurent’s face slowly and carefully rearranged itself. He was still rock solid with tension, arms crossed in front of him defensively, but he seemed to come to terms with Nikandros’ speech by increments.

He approached Nikandros then, jaw set in sincere concentration.

“I…” he said, and then inhaled and sighed hard, “I know.”

Nikandros didn’t move a muscle.

“You...know?” he said.

“I know I toy with people, and I know I give the impression that I don’t care. But I do.” he met Nikandros’ eyes again, unwavering and unforgiving. “You’re correct when you say I manipulate people. It’s easy and entertaining. But I also…” he grimaced slightly, “I do it without meaning to on occasion. Which is why I...need you to tell me. I know what Damen would do for me. He is sincere and honest and unthinkingly kind, which you are correct in thinking I do not deserve, because I don’t… but he is also blind when it comes to me.”

Nikandros raised his eyebrows.

“Which is why I need you to tell me, Nikandros, if I...do something. It is your country, as you said. Not mine. And if I ever...sway Damen in a way I should not, will you...tell me?” Laurent’s brows were furrowed, as if his own question annoyed him.

Nikandros stared at the smaller blonde man in front of him.

“Laurent…” he said, taken aback.

“I don’t like asking for help. Or advice.” Laurent said, perhaps a bit more snappishly than he intended, “But I know that you do know Damen as well as anyone. Better than me. And you can tell when he is not... thinking clearly. He is a better man than I...than anyone…” Laurent laughed slightly and smiled a bit, “And I don’t want to stand in his way.”

Laurent looked up at Nikandros then, and raised a single questioning eyebrow.

“Well? Can I trust you to...keep me honest?”

Nikandros blinked.

When he first ever saw Laurent, he’d disliked him on principle, simply because he was Veretian nobility. When he’d seen the deep and vicious scarring across his King’s bare back, he’d hated him. And when he’d slyly and in a bored voice drawled “He sucked my cock, too”, he’d wanted to kill him.

But now, here he was, face set in a strange hard frown, looking as though he was experiencing an emotion he’d never before felt. And he was asking for help, which was almost certainly a first.

“I will.” Nikandros said, surprising even himself.

Laurent nodded, and then turned away. He walked slowly back over to the record table and looked down at it, drawing his hands idly over the columns of numbers.

“Thank you.” he said, so quietly it barely carried back.

Nikandros hesitated for a second, and then walked over to the table and stood next to the severely dressed figure.

“Swear it.” he said.

Laurent looked up and raised one fine eyebrow.

“What?”

Nikandros rounded the table, seized the small knife used to cut corks to size and held it up, point between his fingers. He proffered it to the Veretian king.

“I said, swear it.”

Laurent just looked at him, face unmoving.

“When I call Akeilons barbarians in idle jest, it is not an invitation to outdo yourself with acts of barbarism.” he said wryly.

Nikandros’ lip twitched.

    He held up his other hand, palm up, showing the four small scars adorning it.

    “When an Akeilon swears a sacred oath, they marks their palms and join hands. The mixing of the blood symbolizes the sharing of the blood of the land between you, meaning to betray that oath is to betray yourself and your country. This one,” Nikandros pointed to the most faded of the marks, “is from when Damen and I were children, and we vowed to trust the other unconditionally and without fault or question should the other invoke the need. This one, from when I was given Delpha as kyros. This one, when I vowed to king Theomedes to protect the heir to the throne; something I will spend my whole life trying to uphold. And this one…” Nikandros ground his teeth together and pointed at the newest one, still pink and even faintly scabbed in the middle, “is an oath I recently swore. To Damen, to…” he sighed deeply.

    “To what?” Laurent said sharply, looking annoyed at the interruption.

    “ _To protect you, you asshole_.” Nikandros snapped, yanking his palm away, “I swore I’d protect you as I’d protect him, as I would one of my own blood.” he was annoyed now.

    Laurent’s face changed not one iota. He just looked at Nikandros’ face, in that disconcerting manner he had where one got the impression he was crawling directly into the mind and prying it apart to examine.

    Then, he smoothly and wordlessly took the knife from Nikandros’ hand and without a second of hesitation, pressed the knifepoint to his pale palm. Blood welled almost immediately, and he handed Nikandros back the knife.

    He held up his bloody palm and said, without rancour, “Swear it.”

    Nikandros took the knife and eyed the man in front of him. For the first time since they first met, Nikandros couldn’t find an ounce of the dark and sly humor that followed Laurent like a sour cloud.

    So, he lifted the knife and touched it gently but firmly to his palm, drawing up a small point of blood. He placed the knife down on the table with a _clink_.

    He raised his hand, flipped it palm down, and grasped Laurent’s, hard.

    Nikandros’ hand was significantly larger, and dark as a nut in comparison to the milky skin beneath.

    “Do you swear to assist me in my endeavor to become a king worthy of Akeilos, and to watch over me as I help Damianos to do the same?” Laurent said.

    Nikandros was taken aback by the wording.

    “Yes. I do.”

    “And that you will, if you must, protect him from me should I...lose my way?”

The second oath seemed more hesitant. Vulnerable.

Laurent was looking at him, hard yet slightly wary.

Nikandros nodded.

“I...I will. I swear it. And I will not abuse it.”

Laurent nodded in wordless acquiescence. He looked down at their hands, seemed to think for a second, and then glanced back up at Nikandros.

“How long are we waiting for, exactly?”

Nikandros found himself smirking. He withdrew his hand from Laurent’s surprisingly sturdy grip, the blood tacky on his skin.

“Congratulations. You’ve sworn your first sacred oath of blood. You’re an honorary barbarian.”

“Delightful. Forgive me for not adopting your native dress...I did do so for some time, but the breeze proved to be a formidable opponent when one generally prefers to refrain from casual nudity.” he cast a meaningful gaze at Nikandros’ bare chest.

Nikandros chuckled and pulled his chiton back up onto his shoulder.

“Not to mention Damen almost choked on his own tongue every time you mounted your horse.”

Laurent smirked then as well, trying to seem nonchalant but his cheeks turning vaguely pink.    

“I’m not the one who climbed a rack of wine in what is essentially the equivalent of a short petticoat without a moment of thought.”

“And I’m not the one who noticed.”

Laurent surprised Nikandros yet again by laughing, genuinely and with a wide smile. While he may have been startlingly beautiful normally, his smile was almost surreally so.

“Do you have any notion of how we’ll get out of here?” Nikandros asked, finding himself grinning back.

Laurent turned and looked at the enormous door. He hummed in thought.

“What does it matter, really?” he said, and looked at Nikandros over his shoulder, “Wait here.”

In a show of remarkable athleticism, Laurent was up on the small table, then sprang lightly up on top of the enormous wine barrels. He then disappeared from sight.

Nikandros frowned and craned his neck.

“Laurent?” he called.

There was silence, then a distant clink of glass.

There was the sound of a slight thumping on hollow space, and then, like a ghost from the shadows above the barrels appeared Laurent, a black mead bottle in both hands. He took a step off the edge and landed lightly on his feet on the ground, right in front of Nikandros.

Laurent handed him a bottle, then sat heavily on a chair. He put his feet up on the table, stretching his long legs and crossed them at ankle, and jammed the knife into the top of the cork.

Nikandros looked at him blankly.

“Eventually,” Laurent said, twisting the knife and slowly easing the cork up the neck of the bottle, “Damen will come looking for us, or Jord or one of your dear...friends. Frankly, I’d rather be in here than out there with those bizarre and hilarious emulations of civilized humans. So, until we are found, I say we sit and have a party of our own,” Laurent popped out the cork and took a swig, “Bottoms up.”

Nikandros slowly came around and stood on the opposite side of the table. Laurent’s eyes followed him, his mouth twisted in a slight smirk.

Nikandros brought the bottom of the bottle around and thumped it, hard, on the front of the nearest barrel three times. He sat down on the second chair, seized the newly exposed cork between his teeth and pulled.

The cork came out with a pop, and Nikandros spat it across the table, where it bounced on pure chance into Laurent’s lap.

Nikandros held out the bottle, and clinked it with Laurent’s.

“Bottom’s up.”

  
  


Damen strode through the palace, ignoring the repeated “Exalted” that followed him wherever he went.

He wasn’t worried yet, but that strange cold feeling he got right before the worry set in was starting to build in his gut.

“Jord!” he shouted, noticing the Veretian soldier ahead in the corridor.

Jord turned and immediately bowed upon seeing Damen approaching.

“Exalted. What do you need? Is the banquet over?”

“It is for me. Where is Laurent?”

Jord looked confused.

“He...hasn’t come up?”

“Up? From where?”

“The...wine cellar? He said he wanted to see an inventory of the liquors in the undercroft cellar. I left him there, at his behest. Is there something wrong?”

Damen was already starting for the stairs.

“Not at the moment.” he called back.

Damen used the secret passages he knew well from his childhood, snuck through the back stairs used only by slaves and escaping fugitives, and he ended up in the dark undercrofts of the castle. The enormous door of the wine cellar loomed, dark and foreboding, and as he approached, he saw it was shut fast.

Not only that, but there were _voices_ coming from inside. Voices and laughter.

Damen raised one eyebrow, and as he went to press his ear to the door, his foot bumped something. He looked down, stooped and picked up the small metal rod of iron.

It was the latch pin. Without it, the door couldn’t open from either inside or out.

Kneeling, Damen looked through the hole left in it’s wake...and inhaled sharply.

    “...so he throws his leg over the horse, looks right at me, says “I’m not so sure about this, Nik.” and then he just sort of slowly slid off the other side. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.”

    “And? What, never after that?”

    “Not as far as I know. That was Damen’s last time drinking griva. I don’t think even you could convince him to touch the stuff now.”

    “Well, I sincerely hope that isn’t true. Damianos falling off his horse is one of my favorite sources of entertainment. That, and the terribly earnest pained noises he makes right before he comes.”

    Damen’s mouth dropped open.

    Laurent and Nikandros were sitting at the winemaster’s table, two empty bottles on the table, and two more in their hands. Nikandros was sputtering and choking, slapping his hand on the table in mirth, while Laurent beamed widely like a naughty child.

    Despite the rising tide of embarrassment Damen could feel colouring his cheeks, something else was seizing his heart. _Gladness._ He’d seen the non-stop hatred aimed at Laurent by Nikandros, and Laurent’s impassivity and utter disregard for Damen’s oldest friend. It had irked him, but he understood it.

    But, now...

    He couldn’t help but smile at the sight through the latch hole.

    “Exalted!”

    Damen jumped, yanked from his peaceful reverie by Jord, who was coming down the stairs towards him.

    Damen got to his feet and toyed with the iron latch, smiling down at it.

    “You found him?”

    “Yes.” Damen said, and gently replaced the latch in it’s hole, careful to make no noise, “But I’ll leave him be.”

 

   

   

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Authors note: I'd like to say I think Laurent more than deserves Damen. My little snarky blonde baby deserves ALL THAT IS BEAUTIFUL AND GOOD. However, I don't think it's far fetched to think sometimes maybe Laurent doubts his own worthiness. So this story is him thinking, not me. I ADORE Laurent.


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